


Christmas Day, with Family

by EventHorizon



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Christmas, Don’t copy to another site, M/M, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-09-27 09:38:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17159633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EventHorizon/pseuds/EventHorizon
Summary: Christmas Day arrives after a difficult week for Mycroft but, when you have loving family, nothing can dim the light of Christmas joy...





	Christmas Day, with Family

**Author's Note:**

> The adoption of young Mistle is chronicled in [Merry Pupmas!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13045815) and reading it beforehand isn't necessary for understanding this particular tale. However, Mistle's cuteness really deserves as many stories as one can possibly manage...

      “Gregory, no.”

      “Gregory, yes!”

      “You have fully… seventeen Christmas biscuits in your hands.”

Greg grinned brightly and shoved the nine one hand was holding into his mouth, instead of the more meager eight in the other hand's set, and shimmied happily as he chewed.

      “Mnot nymor.”

      “Gregory Lestrade… that is positively gluttonous of you.  And you have overexcited Mistle.”

The still-tiny, but not-so-puppy puppy they had adopted the previous Christmas raced about the kitchen, barking loudly and looking so full of holiday cheer he might explode.  That level of energy would have been a great boon to Mycroft over the past several days, in point of fact.  The world seemed to either fall in to a gentle lull at Christmas or erupt in a ridiculous rampage, the latter being the course chosen for this year’s celebration of the world’s various winter holidays.  And, for the person who held a great deal of responsibility for managing the mayhem… it had been a torturous week.

      “Hs hngry.”

      “He is not hungry.  Mistle has already enjoyed his breakfast and… what are you doing?  No… Gregory do not… I see you using your elbow to nudge a biscuit off of the counter!”

The fresh-baked biscuit fell to the floor and was hoovered up with lightning speed by the house’s personal floor-cleaning staff.  Which numbered one.  A very small, but dedicated, one.

      “It’s Christmas!  You’re supposed to eat biscuits and drink mulled wine and wear trousers that have a bit of stretch in them to accommodate all those biscuits and food and cakes and wine and sweets and whatnot.”

      “Mistle does not wear trousers.”

      “I beg to differ.”

      “Your son is absolutely naked.”

      “Not for long!”

Greg snatched up the small dog with his free hand and raced out of the kitchen, smiling widely and ignoring Mycroft’s rolled eyes.

      “Don’t follow us!”

      “I have not moved a millimeter.”

      “Metric is illegal at Christmas.”

      “Should I speak in cubits, instead.”

      “Cubes of cheese, maybe.  We still have any of that Cheddar?”

Mycroft wondered if every couple’s Christmas Day was characterized by biscuit raids, dognapping and shouting between rooms about the availability of cheese.  It _was_ an excellent, Cheddar, though.  Surely a small morsel or two would not spoil his holiday meal…”

      “I can hear you eating my cheese!”

      “Myu crtnly knnot!”

      “I certainly can!  And your son is looking very disappointed about it, too.”

      “Only because he is not participating in the partaking.”

      “That’s true.  Cut us a few pieces, then, and prepare yourself to be amazed!”

      “Is something hiding in the cheese?”

      “No.  But you _are_ going to be astonished, so tell me when you don’t have a sharp knife in your hand.  Hate to pay a visit to hospital to see if your fingers can be sewed back on.”

Oh dear…

      “I am currently without a bladed weapon.”

      “Ok, then here we come.”

Or, more accurately, here came Mistle.  Dressed as an elf.  Complete with cap.  And trousers.

      “By the beard of King Wenceslas… what have you done to Mistle?”

      “Thank Auntie Anthea!  Our boy got a whole sack of clothes for Christmas and they’re more stylish than yours!  Look at him… isn’t he sharp-looking?”

      “The neighbors will believe we have adopted some form of space alien.”

      “No, they won’t.  At least, not after they see him in his _actual_ space alien outfit.  It’s got little antennae attached to the hat, rather than a jingle bell, and some LED’s that flash to make it look more alieny.  I’m going to take some photos of him in front of the gifts, so everyone will think he helped Father Christmas with the deliveries.  Back in a moment.”

Mycroft watched his partner prance away, for prancing it was, while whistling for Mistle to follow, something that did not occur until Mistle was presented with the lump of cheese his internal food radar had already detected, identified and located.  It was an unerring device, fully as sensitive as anything created by NASA, and had the added feature of the stare that morphed seamlessly through hopeful expectation to imperial demand or devastated sadness, depending on the identity and mood of the targeted food provider, until the mission’s objective was achieved.

Glancing at the clock on the radio, Mycroft groaned softly since they had not reached even nine o’clock in the morning.  Admittedly, there actually hadn’t been any sleeping to make this hour properly-described as ‘early,’ since it was more another point on the Christmas continuum that began yesterday and marched solidly through the various gatherings, activities… some far more erotic than others… and viewings of cherished holiday films, which only ended when it became time to prepare for The Great Migration.  To his parent’s home.  With Gregory.  And Mistle.  Who were actually listed first on the holiday card he received from said parents to firmly establish the household hierarchy from the point of view of his progenitors.  That Mistle was listed before Gregory truly summarized their opinion with laudable succinctness.

Oh and his mobile was sounding.  With Mummy’s ringtone.  Marvelous…

      “Happy Christmas, Mummy.”

      “It’s a glorious one, my handsome son.  With his even handsomer son, now.  An elf!  Oh, Mycroft…he’s positively adorable.”

      “Gregory has already provided you with photos.”

      “Popped up in my email a moment ago!  And I expect a family photo with my sweet grandson in front of your tree.  We’ll have one here, too, but one with his dads is necessary for Christmas.  Do you have photo book started?  Why not?”

      “I… I provided no answer to your question.”

      “I anticipated it.  Don’t worry, though, your father and I will find a lovely one and send it to you.  Photos on a phone aren’t as special as ones you put in a nice album to show your friends.”

Having lived his entire life with his mother _in_ that life, Mycroft knew that arguing would only bring him further agony, so it was time for a distraction.

      “Of course.  Now, I assume you have your list of items I must somehow produce for your dinner to be a success that you, yourself, forgot to purchase and will likely require I mobilize the military to obtain?”

      “Gave that to Greg already.  He’s a policeman, so he’ll know which shops are open today and can handle that for me without any fuss.”

Oh.  Well, that was a blessing.  Anthea was unforgivably snippy when he turned over to her Mummy’s last-minute shopping.  She appreciated shopping every other day of the year but was decidedly petulant when the day was Christmas.  The holiday spirit in his PA’s home was a petty, shriveled thing, indeed.

      “I am certain Gregory will valiantly and successfully accomplish his task.  And… what might I expect after we arrive?  I only ask because you do occasionally have a fresh horror to enact on me and I would rather be wearing the proper clothes and shoes for the mauling.”

      “Nothing.”

Pardon?

      “P… pardon?”

      “Not a thing!  John is taking Sherlock with him to help with the holiday festivities at the old veteran’s home they have a few villages over, so you don’t have any child-minding duties in that regard.  Greg is helping your dad get the last of the firewood in and then we’re off, with my grandson, to visit a few friends while the meats get their final turn in the oven.”

      “And… and me?”

      “Well… it’s sort of a surprise, but I suppose I can tell you, but don’t spoil it!  Greg phoned a few days ago and said you were working yourself half to death, what with whatever has been going on that you can’t tell him about, not that he’s upset about that part, not in the least, so don’t worry about that.  He asked if, just maybe, you could have the day simply to relax and eat, have few drinks and… he had several books delivered that you mentioned you wanted, so you have your choice of something to read while you nibble and drink.  We’ll all be out of your hair for part of the day and, after dinner, you can hide in that room we don’t use much, but your father made certain the fireplace was still in good form and clean enough for a cozy fire to keep your toes warm.  We’re having a few people in later, so you’ll be hidden away while we chat and share stories and they coo over my precious grandchild.  I suspect Sherlock will already have dragged John back to London at that point so… well, that’ll be that, won’t it?”

Mycroft stood there, speechless, and scarcely registered the duet singing carols in the sitting room, one human voice married inharmoniously with a canine contribution.

      “Mycroft?  Mycroft are you there?”

      “Y… yes, Mummy.  I was… I truly have _nothing_ to do for the entire day?”

      “Besides have Christmas dinner with all of us, no.  Oh, and we found the cutest thing!  It’s a little doggie table, with a chair, so our grandson can have his own plate at his own table just like the darling he is.  I actually suspect he’ll spend most of the time on Greg’s lap, that cute face of his peeking out to watch the rest of us while we eat and beg for a taste, which he’ll get because he’s the most adorable little thing in the world, but he’ll stay at his own table long enough for me to get some snaps to put in _our_ album, which I started ages ago.  I may need another one after today!”

Mycroft heard very little of that or the rest of his mother’s description of the what she anticipated for the day because his brain was stuck at the point of learning… he had nothing to do.  No errands to run, no activities in which to participate, no… nothing.  And Gregory had ensured he was provided with reading material, very likely from the list his partner had pleaded… and used other techniques, also… to gain from him concerning small gifts to add to his own list of Christmas ideas for his overworked, eternally-busy lover.

      “… so, even if he _does_ have a bit of a run and dig in the yard, that’s only part of the fun, don’t you think?”

      “Gregory?”

      “No, you silly thing.  My precious little Mistle.  Have you been listening, at all?”

      “No.”

      “Lovely.  In any case, you should be leaving soon, shouldn’t you?”

Another glance at the clock confirmed that their scheduled departure time loomed large, however, this year, it was not inspiring the usual level of dread.

      “Yes, and I suspect Gregory will not permit us to delay that by even one second.”

      “He’s such a good man.  Be off with you, then, and give my grandson a kiss from his nan.”

      ‘You will see Mistle in a scant few hours.”

      “That’s not now, though, is it?”

That his mother considered the issue so settled that she simply terminated the call didn’t surprise Mycroft in the slightest.  With that matter concluded, the British Government looked over the Christmas biscuits they had actually baked because Gregory said it was what families did at Christmas, and took three, popping them all in his mouth at once, chewing contentedly as he savored their rather visually-unattractive, but extremely flavorful, handiwork.  Then he picked up one of the large plates they’d prepared and walked into the sitting room where he simply smiled at the sight of his partner using a candlestick as a microphone to sing to the Christmas music on the radio, much to the excitement of their only child who was alternately barking and barooing with his Christmas-loving parent.

      “Biscuits!  Look, Mistle!  Daddy Mycroft brought yummy biscuits for us!”

Mistle knew a startling number of words, in Mycroft’s opinion, with ‘biscuit’ sitting high upon the list and always certain to send him into an even greater level of gleeful energy than he currently occupied.  Which, most likely, already exceeded that of an active nuclear reactor.

      “One for you, dear Mistle, without chocolate, of course, and one for you, my dear, replete with chocolate and other delectable morsels.”

      “One of my mum’s best, in my opinion.  These are almost exactly like hers, too, so we certainly deserve to eat them all with pride.  That your mum on the phone?  I thought I heard _Ride of the Valkyries_ from in there, which really isn’t something I’d expect BBC Radio to have on their holiday roster.”

      “Yes, it was, reminding us that the hour of our pilgrimage is soon to arrive and that her shopping list is of paramount importance.”

      “Ha!  It’s a long one, too.  I already phoned a shop I know is open today so, they’ll have it packaged, and all we have to do is dart in, collect it and say thank you.  I put it on my bank card, so I can jump the queue, which they _always_ have since everyone seems to forget something at Christmas and has to do a mad dash out for it or the holidays will be ruined.  At least, according to their spouse or mum.”

Gregory was a god among men.

      “Extremely efficient.  In that case, we should likely begin gathering our coats and deciding which of our biscuits shall accompany us for the drive.”

      “Hear that, Mistle?  Wanna ride in the car?”

For a small dog, Mistle had a tremendous love of riding in enormous, dark sedans, especially if the window was lowered sufficient for him to look out and bark merrily at passersby.

      “I’d say rolling about on the rug is a yes, so let’s get on it!  I’m sure your mum has another list for us when we arrive and that one will be a bit tougher to manage, so the earlier we arrive, the quicker we can have it sorted.”

Oh, Gregory… you are trying to very hard not to grin like a child who has concocted, in their mind, the cleverest surprise imaginable and are dedicated to hiding that fact until the very last moment.  If you were not the dearly beloved of the most observant man in the nation, you _may_ have boasted a chance of succeeding.

      “Yes, Mummy always has various things that require tending, visits to make… such a burden, but it is the obligation of the season that one not complain, at least not with verbalized vulgarities, about the incidentals of the holiday.”

      “That’s what family’s all about – incidentals, and lots of them.  Alright, I’ll get our little man packed…”

      “Packed?”

      “His toys, coat, travel food and water, his presents to give your parents… packed.”

For a single day’s outing.  The attentiveness of a father to his son was something to warm the heart.

      “Naturally.  I, then, shall tend to the food-based items and gather out own coats.  But first…”

Mycroft set down the biscuit plate and took his lover in a long, slow kiss that warmed Greg from head to toe with that special warmth that came from being kissed by the person you loved with all your heart.

      “Happy Christmas, Gregory.”

      “Happy Christmas, Mycroft.”

The yippy barking at their feet was easily translated and Greg bent to lift up Mistle for a few kisses of his own.

      “Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good… day.”

      “Dear me, I was hoping for a good night, as well.”

      “Shhh…  no sexy talk in front of the baby.”

      “Do pardon me.  But… _will_ our night be a good one, Gregory dear?”

      “As filthy as a you can imagine”

      “I can imagine a great deal and with extreme levels of detail.”

      “Perfect.”


End file.
